


All That Lies Before and After

by goldfinch



Category: The Goldfinch - Donna Tartt
Genre: Attempted Murder, Drug Use, Gen, Suicide Attempt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-07
Updated: 2014-08-07
Packaged: 2018-02-10 22:14:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 927
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2042193
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/goldfinch/pseuds/goldfinch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ukraine, Poland, the orange waste of Australia, Alaska like a frozen asshole even more miserable than Ukraine - and then Nevada, and Potter, lying down in the middle of the desert saying "Leave me here. I want to die."</p>
            </blockquote>





	All That Lies Before and After

When Boris was twelve he locked his father out of the house during a snowstorm, two locks, both bolted, no way he was getting back in. The Ukraine was miserable that winter. No heating like the year they’d spent in Russia, but the snow was worse, the storms ferocious howling things that threw themselves bodily against the sides of the house and froze the water Boris left out in cups, but chilled the vodka nicely. After his father wandered off, drunk, Boris sat on the couch and watched cartoons on a channel with uncertain reception until he fell asleep. Static onscreen like the ragged edge of vision during a whiteout, the moment before consciousness fades. He’d smoked weed before, done nangs more times than he could count, and it was a bit like all of that, the black mechanical roar of unconsciousness, the dizzying fall to the silent center of the earth where he could curl up like an animal and sleep.

His father came back, of course. Three days later in the afternoon, squinting and, mysteriously, in a different shirt, hunched over like it hurt to look at the world. He started crying when he saw Boris, and it took a few startled seconds for Boris to realize his father hadn’t realized what he’d tried to do.

“From now on,” his father said in Russian, clasping him to his chest, “I will drink only beer. No more vodka.”

But they were out of the Ukraine before spring, off to the white wastes of Alaska, where his father crawled into holes the colors of deep rivers and clear spring skies, and Boris could stare into the snow for hours and never see the end of it. There, his father rediscovered vodka and Judy taught him English, drinking whiskey saying, “We don’t always do what’s best for ourselves, honey, or for other people.” All Boris took with him was his bundled batik bedspread, the parachute with his clothes tossed into the middle of it, a few books. That was his life, then. What he could carry with him. Cold and a view of snow from his bedroom window, endless and sullen as the sea.  
   
   
   
 

 

 

 

Texas. Arizona. Nevada. More long weeks where his father didn’t come home, and then long weekends spent in a glittering whirl of pills, mornings where he woke up still drunk, in rooms he didn’t recognize, in bed with people he didn’t know. Always best friends with them by evening. The neighborhoods were so big and sprawling that once he got lost walking home, and spent the night smoking weed with a pair of street kids who stole all his money, which Boris figured was fair, since he’d smoked all their weed. He met Theo a week after the new school year started, glasses like Harry Potter but a scar on his head Boris had to paw through his hair to see, ribbing, “Are you sure? Is nothing here, Potter,” Theo laughing and squirming under him. “Fuck you,” Theo said. “Look harder.” Boris found it eventually, a thin white line already fading away under the sun. Nothing so terrible. Nothing like the crushed pulp of Theo’s heart.

Boris knew what had happened to Theo’s mother, had even imagined it sometimes, in the dark as the room whirled and Theo mumbled in his sleep. Dreaming about it too, probably. But worse than that were the nights they got too drunk, or smoked too much weed, because when he was high Theo did things like try to lay down in the street, or wander off into the desert with no intention of coming back.

The black waste of the desert under a purple Las Vegas sky, Theo’s shirt unbuttoned and flapping like a cut sail in the darkness. Boris's legs were sore from horsing around the day before, and he complained about it to Theo’s back. “Think I pulled a muscle, Potter, am serious. When I walk it hurts like someone stabbing a knife into my leg, over and over. Is your fault. I told you not to faff around with that ball. For apology, you have to make me egg and toasts - and a Pepsi from the vending machine tomorrow; I will buy some weed and we can spend all day there, okay?”

Theo drifted to a stop. “I’m not… I’m gonna just stay out here.” He started to sit down but Boris leaned forward to catch his elbow.

“Don’t be stupid. Come back, Potter. I’m hungry, and who will make me egg and toasts if you’re out here?”

“Leave me, Boris. Leave me.” Theo flapped a hand at him, then, when Boris didn’t move, lurched sloppily toward him, easy enough to just step aside but Boris caught him instead, drug-slow and just as uncoordinated. Theo’s hair smelled like sweat and the sour reek of day-old alcohol without a shower, same as him, and Boris went down, first on one knee, then backward and over flat onto the sandy earth.

Theo’s weight heavy on his chest, Theo’s elbow folded sharp against his stomach. The stars were a crazed whirl overhead, the Milky Way a pale, uncertain blur. “I don’t want to be here anymore,” Theo whispered.

Boris hooked one arm up over his shoulders. “Is okay, Potter,” he said. His hand brushed hot down Theo’s chest, to the crescent of new sunburn just below his belly-button. “Is okay.” Sometimes we don't do what's best for ourselves, or other people. Sometimes we do.

Theo took a long, shuddering breath against his chest, and then began to cry.


End file.
